"Uncle! That's good—like to hear it; gives me a sort of anchor. I think you and I will get along all right. Guilford told me, I don't know how long ago—got the letter somewhere—that it was your ambition to become an orator. And I can give you a few points, for I have lived for years in a hot bed of free speech, and without free speech, there is no real oratory. Round here they think that Marshall and Clay were great orators, and they were in a way, but you ought to hear Abe Lincoln."
"I never heard of him," Old Master spoke up.
"Oh, no; but you will. He can squeeze mirth and tears out of the heart all at once. When he arises to speak, and even before he has uttered a word, every man in the audience says to himself, 'there is my brother.' Guilford, your polished Kentuckians speak out of the book, by note, and they may work themselves into a fine heat, but this man Lincoln cries from the fullness of a soul that the Lord has given him."
"Clem," said Old Master, bending a hard look upon his brother and rolling his pill of bread, "you tempt me to say that you are a blasphemer against the majestic voice of my State, sir. Never was the voice of man truer than among these graceful hills, and never did the heart of man beat warmer for freedom and justice."
"Ah," Mr. Clem cried, "for freedom, did you say? For slavery, you mean."
"Sir," said Old Master, "Henry Clay has spoken for the bondman."
"But was he honored for it?" Mr. Clem asked. "Do you honor him for it?"
"Clem, if you have come to sow the seeds of abolition, to disgrace my household with the mud brought from your free soil—your sink hole of iniquity—I must request you to go away."
"It is easier to drop a subject than to ride a long distance," Mr. Clem replied with a broad smile. "Got any good horses?"